“Glitter Cherry Bomb Lipgloss,” a Short Story by Anonymous

It was one of those warm nights with a slight chill in the air: a breeze that raises the hair on your arms and brushes by your skin, licking your very outer shell and eliciting goosebumps.

I sat in the diner with a large plate of bright yellow scrambled eggs, steam rising from them. Next to them were two slices of toast glistening with butter, almost soggy in the amount of butter spread across the golden surface, and three strips of crispy, dark bacon. Even though the smell of my freshly made midnight breakfast wafted through the air and excited my taste buds, my stomach wasn’t appetized: it sat in my body, filled with what seemed like rocks filling up the hunger I’d hoped to quench.

Dried tears on my cheeks tightened my skin as I shut my eyes tight, trying to ward off the oncoming wave of fresh tears. The rolling ripples hadn’t stopped coming all night, every lull in my brain’s constant stream of thoughts allowed space for him to intrude on my mind, instigating another onslaught of tears.

I rested my head on my hand, staring into the hardwood floor beneath me, trying to grasp the night I’d just had. There were only two other people in the diner, the waitress dressed in all black, black leggings, black apron, tight black t-shirt, and a girl about three booths over, staring at the same plate of food in front of her as me: scrambled eggs, buttered toast, bacon. She seemed to be having a slightly rougher time than me though, her leg under the table an uncontrollable bundle of nervous energy pumping up and down and her fingers aggressively picking her cuticles.

The plate of food seemed even more unappealing when I looked back down at it, the delicious scent of bacon turned into a sour, nauseating odor.

“Are you doing okay?” The waitress appeared above me, cakey makeup only slightly covering her visible undereye bags. She looked exhausted: slumped posture, frowning features, the white lamp above us casting her in an unnatural shade of silver under the artificial midnight glow. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“The girl in the booth over sent this.” She set down a glass of bright orange juice in front of me, happening to be the one thing I didn’t realize I was craving.

Sipping it, I called over to the girl, “Thank you!”

She smiled, still erratically bouncing her leg, seeming like she was about to burst into tears. Relatable. It was then I called her over, seeing as both of us appeared to be having pretty crappy nights.

“Sorry, you looked like you needed that,” her voice was gripping onto the edge of breaking, holding on for dear life.

“Rylee,” I offered my name and a warm smile, gesturing to the seat across from me. This odd distraction from my life seemed like it was exactly what I needed at the moment: to throw everything else out the window and meet a hurting stranger in a random diner at midnight.

She had pale skin and large bouncy black curls, her lips coated in a cheap hot pink glittery lip gloss and blurred gold eyeshadow, mascara smeared underneath her eyes, likely victim to tears. She wore a shimmery champagne dress, drawing the two colors of her makeup together perfectly. It hugged her otherwise thin figure, extenuating her long legs. There was something beautiful but sad about her: large dark eyes pleading and anxious features tainted her attraction.

Still, I felt embarrassed sitting across from this tragically beautiful girl in an old crewneck sweatshirt belonging to my now-ex fiánce and sweatpants, not even wearing an ounce of makeup; it had all been cried off in rivers of black tears down my face. I suddenly reached up to the tangle of curls at the nape of my neck and drew it into a low ponytail out of pure insecurity.

When she heard my name, a grin instantly lit up her face, electrifying her features for a second, “I’m Rylee too.”

I chuckled, letting go of my sadness for a second. Of course, we would have the same name. Two girls that couldn’t be more different in a random diner at the same time with the same name.

“Question is,” she continues, “how do you spell it?”

“A weird way. Like totally not normal way.”

“Same. R-Y-L-E-E.”

“No way.” My eyes widened, the irony of the moment making me laugh more. “That’s how I spell it.”

Rylee throws her head back and lets out a loud laugh, one that releases a sort of sad energy, her eyes rolling back, saying of, effing, course.

“I’ve literally never met anyone who spells Rylee the same way,” I say as we settle down, a somber silence inhabiting the air around us once again. “Do you want a bite? A sip?” I pushed my food and drink over to her, but she just shook her head.

“So, what are either of us doing here at 12:13 am on a Wednesday in the middle of September?” Her voice was settled down to a raspy whisper, the surprised laughter since dissolved, sounding like it once resembled a bubbly sort of happiness now drowning in despair.

“I mean, your story looks like it would sound more interesting,” I gestured to her outfit, glancing at the white pumps on her feet I hadn’t noticed before.

“Or maybe we could talk about arbitrary things,” Rylee quickly changed the subject, glossing over the event that was probably causing the tears brimming in her eyes.

“Like this food,” I said.

“Yes. Like this food.”

“It’s good.”

“I actually haven’t tried it yet,” she said.

“Neither have I,” I admitted, rather sadly. Then we both cracked up.

“Girl, what even are we doing right now?” Her voice was lively for a second, brightening up the diner around us.

“I couldn’t tell you.” An uncomfortable silence settled around us, like a weighted blanket being draped on us.

Without warning and rather abruptly, Rylee blurted, “My mom’s in the ICU. She was drunk driving while I was at a stupid sorority dance. And she crashed. And now she’s in the hospital.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. Do you, do you want me to drive you to the hospital?” I started to stand, waving down the waitress sitting a few tables over who’s staring at the soundless TV.

“I haven’t talked to her in eight years.”

“Oh.”

“So I don’t want to see her. But God bless her.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Now tell me your story.”

A feeling of stupidity washed over me. Here I was, crying about a boy (who, to my defense, was supposed to be the love of my life), and here’s this girl mourning her mom who’s in critical condition.

Rylee sensed my hesitation, “I know my reason might make yours seem shallow, but don’t worry about it. I promise it’s not.”

“My fiance, my ex-fiance, cheated on me with his high school sweetheart. We’re supposed to get married in twenty-nine days.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Before a fresh wave of tears could make their way out of my eyes, Rylee asked me quite suddenly, “Do they have apple pie here?”

“Probably.”

“Do you have apple pie?” She asked the waitress.

“No. I have cherry, though.”

“That’s fine, thanks.” She said.

After a few minutes of weirdly uncomfortable silence, with nothing but the distant kitchen sounds behind closed doors and the occasional footsteps and voices behind them, the waitress brought out the pie, and Rylee pushed the plate to me without asking if I wanted it.

“Eat.”

I started shoveling spoonfuls of cherry pie (cherry pie happens to be my favorite dessert) into my face, tears involuntarily spilling down my cheeks.

“This is good,” I said, my mouth full of pie, “try some.”

She took a bite, smiling a bit when she tasted it.

“Aren’t people just great?” She asked, “my mom also killed a thirteen-year-old boy and his dad tonight. If you’re wondering. That’s why I don’t want to see her. She walked out on me and my dad and now killed two people,” she’s silent for a second, and then added, “and please don’t give me pity.”

“We need some more pie.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want a $2,000 wedding dress for free?”

“No.”

“What about this sweatshirt?”

“Sure.”

I pulled the sweatshirt off my body as if it was coated in filth, contaminated with memories of him, and slid it across the table to her. She eagerly grabbed it and threw it on over her shimmering dress.

It was weird to see his sweatshirt on someone else: I’d had that one since we were 18 when we met in college; it was freezing in our lecture hall and I was literally shivering sitting next to him, so he slid the sweatshirt over to me without saying a word. After class, he asked me out and we’d been together ever since. Seeing a piece of our story, the beginning of our story, on someone else’s body shocked me, but also made me feel a weird sense of calm.

“If it’s any consolation, in the past forty-three minutes that I’ve known you, you seem nothing like your mom.”

“How would you know?”

“I…I don’t know. You just do.” Silence.

Her phone then rang, a stunning, sudden jolt in the impossible silence that almost buzzed around us, ringing in my ears. She answered the call, nodding slightly and adding a few mhm’s and yeah, yes in between pauses. “Okay, thanks.” She then hung up.

“My mom made it through surgery.”

“Naked truth. Is that a good thing?”

“Yes and no.”

“Do you want to see her?”

“Definitely not.”

“Got it.”

Silence.

“Did he apologize?” She asked suddenly, almost intently, leaning in, waiting for my answer.

“Yes. He said it was a mistake, and basically blamed it on the girl,” a pathetic laugh escaped my lips, “but obviously, I wasn’t enough to stop him. If I were enough, he wouldn’t have done it.” The last sentence came out a quiet, hoarse whisper.

“Good for you that you didn’t take him back.”

Without warning, a wave of nauseous pain splashed across my chest, sparking tears in my eyes. I guess Rylee recognized this because she called over the waitress asked for more pie. More pie. I’m going to gain all the weight I’ve lost for the stupid wedding.

“I got the check,” I offered. A glance at my phone told me that it was already 1:02. Under the time, a series of messages from my ex-fiancé lit up the screen begging for me to come back, begging for my forgiveness. Instinctively, I unlocked my phone to open them, but Rylee reached across the table and blocked his number before I even knew what was happening. Disappointment caused my eyes to drop to the floor; it really is over between him and me. Even if I did realize it before, that was just a reassurance to what I already knew: I could not let him back into my life.

“You’re welcome.”

“I should get going soon. Do you need a ride?” I asked.

“I’m sure. Thanks.”

“Can you give me your number at least, so I know that you got home safely?”

“I think it’s best if we don’t exchange numbers. This is a night I never want to think about again.” She started to peel off the sweatshirt to give back to me.

“Keep it.”

“But I-”

“I really don’t want it. And I want you to have it.”

“Thanks, Rylee.”

“Your welcome, Rylee,” I laughed slightly, offering another small smile like the one I’d given her just about an hour ago when I first told her my name.

She smiled too, a warmness once again brightening her features a tiny bit. She rose from the table, taking one last bite of cherry pie.

“Don’t reach out to him. He sounds awful.”

Sudden memories of him and I played in front of my eyes, translucent overlays to my vision: him and I diving under waves at the beach, laying in his arms late at night, quick goodbye hugs in between our college lectures. But then bad ones too: when he told me what he did, the look on his face, how he was angry that I broke it off as if I was the one who did something wrong. Even staring at the reflection of myself in my phone camera sitting outside our apartment in my car, black tear stains running down my cheeks, my eyes puffy and rimmed red, seeing myself so broken over someone who meant the world to me.

“He wasn’t. Until he was,” I finally choked out.

“Aren’t they all the same?”

“Good luck with everything. I hope your mom is okay.”

“Thanks.”

“You also don’t need to forgive her. But I think you should see her.”

“Maybe I will,” she said thoughtfully as if really contemplating it, “and maybe I won’t.”

“Bye, Rylee.”

“Bye, Rylee.”

And then, she walked out without a second glance back. I watched the back of his sweatshirt disappear out of the diner and past the front windows into the darkness, presumably to a car. I hope for her. I hope she’s okay.

I dropped a fifty dollar bill on the table, not bothering to ask for change, staring at the interesting array of food in front of me: untouched, now cold eggs, toast, and bacon, two empty plates of cherry pie, and a mostly empty glass of orange juice.

As I started to walk out, something caught my eye in the seat where Rylee was. A shimmery hot pink drugstore lip gloss. I snatched it up and caught the name of it, Glitter Cherry Bomb, laughing to myself slightly. This night couldn’t get any more ironic. Without a second thought, I stride out, hearing the waitress get up behind me to clear my table. The lipgloss sat in the pocket of my sweatpants, and I could almost feel a sort of warmth radiating from it.

“Thanks,” I said to the waitress without looking behind me.

“Have a goodnight.”

“You too.” And with that, I stepped outside into the slightly chilly night, without my sweatshirt, feeling somewhat refreshed by the breeze instead of cold.